Lucky Charms

A late model BMW 330 series honked at me. My ride was on time. “Where we goin’?” Hiro rolled down the window and shouted at me outside of the Nakagawa sports center where we had met one Friday night playing hoops.

I welcomed the change of plans after Mike from Flamingo agency called to say that I hadn’t passed photo selection for the soccer movie. I brushed off my bruised ego, and instead pretended to look forward to spending Saturday at the radish festival in Asakusa. Thankfully that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Takasu-Takasa-Takasomething,” I said fumbling for my guidebook. “Takasaki!”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Gunma prefecture.” (Think New York’s Dutchess County.)
“Gunma!” Hiro boomed, as if I had suggested driving to Hokkaido, Japan’s northern island.
If we left now, I explained that we’d arrive just in time for the end of a festival. The poor timing or 115 km (70 miles) trip weren’t problems. Hiro was up for driving anywhere. But if we were gonna go to Gunma, he needed maps.

“This is my daddy’s car. He doesn’t know how to use GPS so there isn’t one here,” Hiro said. I smiled every time the 29-year-old referred to his “daddy.” Educated in Colorado, Hiro quit his import-export auto parts job the day before, and was now helping out at his daddy’s ramen shop two stations away from me. Sitting comfortably in the BMW’s leather interior, I assumed business was boiling over.

Highway tolls (emphasis on high) made the trip about as expensive as a slow train, but German automotive engineering beats the wheels off Japan Rail. The air was crisp; we were in the countryside. An elementary school cashed in by transforming its dirt playground into a parking lot where streams of festival-goers were returning to their cars laden with armfuls of daruma dolls.

Takasaki is the birthplace of these good luck charms that represent a famous Zen monk. Legend has it that after meditating in a cave for nine years, he lost use of all limbs. This city of 240,000 manufactures 80% of Japan’s limbless, mustached dolls with vacant white eyes. They are purchased in the beginning of the year, and one pupil is painted when a wish is made. The other is added when the wish comes true. At the end of the year, the doll is returned to its shrine of origin and ceremonially burned.

Hiro was huffing at the top of the 100 stairs leading to Shorinzan Temple. The daruma doll festival had lasted all night. We arrived as vendors were packing up, but just in time to snatch up bargains on merchandise and the last batch of tako yaki dripping in barbecue sauce. There’s nothing like fried batter balls of octopus bits to send my stomach into gastronomic bliss.

The round dolls piled on top of one another reminded me of pumpkins at the country market. Like pumpkins, daruma came in assorted sizes. And when in Takasaki…well, I wanted the biggest one my thin wallet could support. Hiro helped negotiate, and I walked away holding one with both hands. I named it Takaruma, and bought him some smaller friends.

“The girls in the countryside have better fashion than girls in Tokyo,” Hiro said as we walked down the mountain and passed two sets of short skirts and long legs shivering in the dead of winter. “But country girls can be shy.” Although married, he sometimes calls after the uniformed high school girls.

We decided to explore downtown. Leaving Starbucks, a rainbow-colored sign in English caught my attention. “We Go used clothing 7F.” I was feeling lucky already having purchased charms in bulk. “Can we go?” I asked, persuading Hiro to scale seven flights of escalators to take a closer look.

I was in luck. The store was having its January 50% off sale. Worker jackets stitched with random nametags hung on a rack outside the entrance. Parting the hangers, I saw myself. “Hey Jeff, can you fix my flat?” Hiro joked. I shared first names with an employee of Sterling trucks (or plumbing). It fit well, and my green tea frappuccino cost nearly as much. The sales clerks’ eyes widened at the novelty of the match.

The music inside was thumping, and I could tell that Hiro wanted to get out of Gunma and back to the city. I re-racked a burgundy velvet blazer, and after a fruitless detour to HMV in the basement, we bid Gunma goodbye. Takasaki’s lights twinkled in the sunset.

View the Daruma slideshow here.

* * *
The only flaw with the jacket was its wrinkled fabric. Hiro suggested pressing it at the cleaners. The label confirmed that dry cleaning was an option.

But after wishing me a happy New Year, the fatherly owner of Fashion Cleaners said he couldn’t help me. So, I walked down the block for a second opinion. A voice welcomed me from the depths of racks of clothing wrapped in plastic, but trailed off upon seeing a foreigner.

I apologized in Japanese for not speaking Japanese, and used gestures to indicate I wanted the wrinkles removed. This prompted the woman to talk up a storm. I deduced that she couldn’t help me either, and that it had to do with the polyester and cotton shell.

I humbly admitted I didn’t understand one word of what felt like a three-minute explanation. She asked me where I was from and why didn’t I understand Japanese (this I did understand).

“It’s hard,” I conceded, continuing to stretch out the fabric to make the creases disappear. I wanted them out. This sparked more babbling. It must be the ESL teacher in me, but when I know that a listener doesn’t understand much English, I talk as slowly and simply as possible.

This woman had no such sympathy. I watched her mouth like a spinning slot machine, waiting to match up three recognizable words in a row and cash out. The best I could determine was that the material couldn’t be ironed, and that the jacket looked cool the way it was.

Wrinkled or not, this ¥750 ($6.50) jacket is actually warmer than the spring shell I’ve been skating by on to shield against winter. After I make a few house calls around the neighborhood, I’ll earn enough to upgrade to proper gear. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the muffler or toilet tank running.